


Back Again and Gone Again

by Isadorabelle



Series: Death Became Him [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2018-04-13 23:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4541088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isadorabelle/pseuds/Isadorabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape wakes up a new man and tries to find his place in this world- or escape from it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, my name is Death-er, Severus Snape.

“I do not need a bloody nurse to come in with my food and bloody well try to feed me! I am perfectly fine so Let. Me. Out.”

The entire statement, boomed from a rather perturbed baritone, was punctuated with the sight of a food tray being flung out of an open doorway, food scattering in the hall with an orange lazily rolling after it. The atmosphere of St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, which was normally maintained as a strict calm, had obviously been tested if the lack of reaction from the other patients and Healers was any indication.

Minerva McGonagall’s step faltered for just a moment as she gazed warily at the tray. She glanced to her companion, who battle and hardship had hardened but still left him with a teenage awkwardness, and stiffened her back.

“Come now Mr. Potter, we are still Gryffindors.” McGonagall smoothed the pinched expression of disapproval as she and Harry Potter filled the wide doorway leading into Severus Snape’s room.

 

The man in question stood in the middle of the room, his lithe figure taunt as he glared down the Healer’s aide who had managed to offend him. Black slacks covered his legs, but an open backed lilac medigown had somehow, at first glance at least, diminished his image of intimidation. Despite lilac clearly not being the pale man’s color, the young woman was an image of anxiety—a former student—and her eyes darted to the door in a primal fight-or-flight-response.

“I see you’re feeling better.”

The sound of McGonagall’s no-nonsense voice seemed to deflate whatever demand had been threatening to spill out of the former Death Eater. He snapped towards her too quickly and with the same dancer’s grace that his students and staff always assumed he had, he righted himself. His expression was stormy and somehow raw and wild, but the sight of McGonagall quickly schooled it into something contained again and he watched her with an ill expression.

“This is ridiculous, Minerva. There is nothing wrong with me, I’m perfectly fine. Look see? Standing, dressed…kind of.” Severus said as he indicated to himself. The aide quickly eased out behind his guests—he ignored her.

“You were unconscious for a week after it happened.”

Severus gave her a long-suffering look and turned his back on the two of them. With a new lack of modesty, he jerked the lilac gown over black curls—which were as wild as the man had been moments before—and dropped it on his bed. Muscles and sinew flexed as he picked up a plum colored shirt and examined it with a snort. “I told that woman that I wanted my old clothes. She didn’t just ignore me, she deliberately got me something else. I’m supposed to be a patient. Fragile. I should get what I want.”

Continuing to murmur his numerous complaints, he slipped the shirt on and made short work of buttoning it up and tucking it in before once again returning his attention to his co-worker and former student. Blatantly, he ignored Harry and focused on McGonagall.

“When can I leave? I understand that I’m…different,” Severus began, trying diplomacy as a new tactic, though his impatience was only thinly veiled. “But, I’m just fine. It isn’t as if plants and birds are dying in my presence. I’m just…I survived. This is the wizarding world—it’s bloody magic, strange things happen all the time.” Severus tried to reason and offered a somewhat unnatural shrug. “They’ve done all kinds of tests to me, I’ve drank gods know how many potions, I’ve had more spells cast on me than I knew existed—“

“I’ve spoken to the Healers looking after you.”

Severus twitched, his head tilting to eye her more critically, as if trying to determine just what she was thinking without using legilimency on her. “I’m the same old Severus Snape and…I should be able to leave.” The new information changed his tone and he leaned as casually as he could against a dresser that had been provided to the room.

“You most certainly are not. Look at you, you are a younger, brand new man— of course I noticed, everyone noticed, stop smirking—and no one can explain what happened. You proclaimed to be Death, Severus, and then destroyed the Dark Lord in a matter of seconds. Severus, they don’t know what to make of you.” Minerva stated, immune to his glares.

 

“It’s also for your protection.” Severus had momentarily forgotten about him. His animosity towards Harry for all those years had not been a farce, but the truth was that that didn’t matter anymore. James Potter was dead and for a short while, so was he. Part of him desperately wanted to leave the burden of hating him there in the Shrieking Shack and in Godric’s Hollow, where they both died. Still, Harry Bloody Potter had seen him in a lilac hospital gown.

“A lot of people saw what you did,” Harry continued slowly “and a lot of peple think you’re a hero. But…not everyone. For a week you weren’t conscious for more than moments at a time. You were delirious, saying things, sometimes not even in languages anyone recognized, and we wanted to keep you safe.” Harry stated and shifted his feet slightly. “What you did, when we told people you were a hero, you saved the wizarding world and nobody else died. You are a monster to the Death Eaters that survived, a nightmare incarnate and a hero to everyone else. I suppose…for some those that witnessed it…you’re a bit of both. But no one is ready to lose you.”

The scowl Severus wore hadn’t really softened as he listened to Harry, but by the end of his statement, it was hollow. He crossed his arms and walked to the windows. Muggle London rushed by outside, glistening and shining and nearly oblivious to the war that had been raging in between the cracks. He breathed in deeply and out slowly, able to feel the constant thump of his own heart.

“I never meant to survive.” He told them, the irritation and anger in his voice surprised even him. Then again, all of the things he’d managed to bury away under ice and snow had surfaced again; Death had been too hot for it not to. “I didn’t ask to survive, I didn’t want this.” His tone was only slightly milder than before. Severus closed his eyes, willing the turbulence in him to stay in tightly controlled confides. He only felt partially successful when he opened his eyes again.

“I’m not staying here anymore.” He began calmly and looked back at them. “Let me go, or I go anyway.”


	2. The Headmaster’s New Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus leaves St. Mungo's and is a little perturbed that he isn't in his typical black robes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, over a year. I entertained the thought of just not even bothering, but I have all six chapters already planned out. As it is I had a very long, stressful year that ended in a bad way. When I reread I felt a spark and decided to go with it. I'll update as I can. :)

A critical eye examined the reflection staring back at him. He lifted one hand and fussed over longish black curls. They were unruly and refused to be tamed with just a hand, and he wasn’t the sort to put product in his hair. Yet…they were wild and wouldn’t simply lay flat. He knew that when his hair grew out more that it would straighten out and the curls would resign themselves to the tips of his hair. It would be more manageable longer, and he just didn’t look right with shorter hair. Until it grew out, it was at this awkward stage.  
And that wasn’t even talking about his face.  
  
It wasn’t an unpleasant face, he supposed. Prominent nose, black eyes and razor sharp cheekbones—this was all him, but it was different too. His face was different, more expressive than he remembered and despite little pokes here and there, he just couldn’t conjure it up into being the same again. Not that it was great before. Severus frowned at his reflection and watched as a crease formed between his brows. It wasn’t there all the time with this face and did it really matter? Did he want to keep a watch on that? He did, and he didn’t like that he did.  
  
A slight movement in the mirror caused him to spin around quickly, reaching for a wand that wasn’t up his sleeve, but on the nightstand by his bed. He regarded the familiar Healer that stood by the door before going over to pocket his wand.  
  
  
“I have something in my bag that I use on my hair, you’re welcome to it.” Mosa offered, her unique accent familiar to him. He felt more relaxed around her, an odd sensation considering the knack she had for irritating him.  
  
“Do I look like someone that would put product in my hair, woman? It’s bad enough that I look like fruit with this shirt. What part of ‘get me my old robes’ escaped your grasp?” Severus asked sharply and ignored her entirely as she approached him.   
  
It became that much more difficult to ignore her when she came up and began to fix little parts of his outfit and he looked positively indignant when she sharply batted his hands away when he tried to stop her.  
  
“And which part of ‘I’m not your bloody house elf or servant, you’ll get what I have the time to pick up in Diagon Alley’ escaped yours?” Mosa asked distractedly, though her voice lacked bite and was rather matter of fact. Stepping back, she swept an eye over his appearance before she gave a small nod and went to fuss over something else in the room. Severus looked back at the mirror and begrudgingly admitted that he looked more like he was comfortable in the shirt rather than like some nattering Healer had come in and thrust it in his hands with no other options.  
  
“I suppose this is the last day you’ll have to deal with me, Healer. You’ll go celebrate with your fellow staff, I imagine. I’ll not have another opportunity to ask. Where are you from?” Severus asked as he sat down to put his shoes on. He was an observant man—a necessity in his line of work—and had, in the week he’d been awake, paid attention to all his staff rather more than they thought. Most were easy, a compilation of English, Welsh, Scottish and Irish. Just the sort he might’ve expected at St Mungo’s. And then there was Mosa Brae. She didn’t flinch away from his scathing comments, his insults, his sarcasm or his, frankly, abuse. She deflected it with her own dry wit and her own sarcasm, and at times a no-nonsense attitude that had compelled him to obedience when nothing else would persuade him to let her and the other healers do their jobs.  
  
Her differences hadn’t ended at that. Her skin was warm, tanned from birth and she had a wide, fuller mouth with dark grey eyes. He’d never actually seen her hair, though he imagined it dark. By conventional standards she must’ve been a lovely woman, but she hid it behind thick robes and kept her femininity tucked up in one of the optional hats provided to the healers there at St Mungo’s. An urge—awakened no doubt by Death—was to get all that off of her. He could add that to the growing list of changes he didn’t like. He didn’t like darker skinned, dark haired women. He’d always preferred fair skin and red hair. It still hurt, too.  
A flash of blue robe brought him out of his review of the annoying woman and he eyed her, raising his eyebrow for an answer.   
  
“South Africa,” Mosa replied finally and looked back at the parchment she was studying. “My father was a Christian missionary and met my mother, a witch and a healer, on one of his trips to South Africa.” Mosa murmured and tutted something she read before pulling a muggle pen from her pocket to make notes.  
  
“I didn’t ask for your life story.” Severus told her with a slight sneer. Finishing up his other shoe, he regarded the woman from where he sat. She hadn’t even acknowledged that she’d heard him. “Your father is a Christian missionary and your mother a witch. How did that work?” He asked in spite of himself.   
  
Mosa glanced up at him and let a small smile touch her lips. “My father viewed my mother’s magic as a gift from God, mine as well. In that area, it is not called witchcraft and would not be a conflict of interest. When my parents died, I came back here. It is where my husband was from too, so I had nothing to stay for.” She explained and somehow, the last part was tighter than the rest. Severus watched as she finished writing, clicked the top of the pen, and put it back.  
  
“So you’re married then? No wedding ring.” He observed, annoyed at himself for having noticed and annoyed at himself for caring one way or the other. These weren’t things he noticed before. Damn Death and the deity’s desire to live vicariously through him.  
  
“My husband was from here. Past tense. I am a widow.” The reply was simple and somewhat automatic.  
  
He was sorry that he asked. And annoyed that he was a bit pleased that he wouldn’t have to deal with some raging jealous husband. And doubly annoyed that part of him wanted to be in a situation where he would have a raging jealous husband to contend with. New body, new…things. No, not new, just…awakened.  
  
Severus huffed to himself and stood up before reaching for his robe. She glanced at him and rolled up the parchment before approaching the man again. Once he had the robe on, Mosa picked at a piece of fuzz. “This is quite an improvement over your old look, Professor Snape.” He scowled, which only deepened when she raised a challenging brow at him.  
“You’ve got a chance for a fresh start out there, try not to be an arse and muck it all up.” Mosa stated and gave him a simple smile before extending the parchment.  
“Witch, you’ve got an awful manner about you.” Severus complained and looked at his discharge parchment. He glanced back up to catch the little grin she gave him.   
“They call me in when it fits the patient, Professor Snape. Good day.” She replied and gave him a short bow before turning on her heel. Severus watched her go and pursed his lips, smiling just slightly before sparing a glance in the mirror and heading out.  
  
Bright flashes, pops and little whips of smoke filled his senses as soon as the doors of St. Mungo’s opened. Years of being a spy and walking such a fine line made it so that having sudden attention on him was quite unwelcomed and for a moment, everything stopped. He seemed to live in that second—a sensation completely new and alien to him—and it felt as if bugs crawled beneath his skin. They gravitated to his eyes and his mouth. He could feel the tingle and wasn’t even conscious of the hush that came over his spectators. Severus lifted a hand, blocking a flash of light, and the second was over. Severus looked at McGonagall. His childhood teacher, colleague and even friend gave him a steady look. The feeling started to recede and everything came back in sharp contrast.  
  
Fresh start. Mosa was right, he had an opportunity to not be an outcast. He didn’t have to be Harry Bloody Potter, but he didn’t have to be the traitor that killed Dumbledore and just happened to be a lucky enough bastard that he killed the Dark Lord too. Severus blinked a few times and breathed in deeply, his stoic mask slipping back into place as he regarded the reporters.  
  
“My name is Severus Snape and for longer than some of you have been alive, I have been a loyal servant of Albus Dumbledore as his spy. I worked to put an end to the Dark Lord and his agenda once and for all. He killed me and someone else gave me a second chance to complete my task. The end of Lord Voldemort is all I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember, and it’s done. That’s it.”  
  
Despite being a teacher, he’d never been much on public speaking. There was a difference between teaching dunderheaded little twits how to not blow themselves up and dealing with…this. Severus struggled to control the newfound energy he had as he pushed his way away from the center of attention. As soon as he was clear, the harassed wizard apparated with nothing but a little pop to mark his departure.  
  
  
  
Years of apparating should’ve made it easy this time, but Severus found himself slumping against the brick wall of the alleyway he’d just arrived in. The world had continued swishing by violently for a good second after he arrived and that same out of control feeling he kept having reared up. He straightened and righted himself once again before starting the walk to Spinner’s End. It was time for a fresh start.


	3. Home is Where the Memories of Gruesome Bloodshed Are.

The room wasn’t silent. The clunking of bottles, laughter and various sounds of a tavern filtered up through the floors along with the rhythmic, steady sound of a clock ticking away in the corner. It was calming, comforting. More so than the quiet of the voice in his mind. It was still him, Severus knew that, but there was something else too, something just out of reach and when he managed to touch the fingertips of his consciousness to it, it slipped away like a fish in a stream. It was Him, staying just out of reach.

Before he died, he would’ve been ankle deep in fire whiskey right then, uncertain that he could walk so unwilling to chance it should a house elf or fellow staff member insist on checking on him like a wayward son. No, he’d stay on his couch and simply sleep there until morning came and he had the misfortune of living through the night. He wanted to die, but he was too much of a coward to do it. Voldemort and his awful serpent fixed that, they killed him. Death just had to bring him back.

Severus turned his bitter expression from the full bottle of fire whiskey at his feet and back to the street below. It was the middle of summer and Hogsmeade was alive with wizard folk walking back and forth. School wouldn’t be starting for at least another six weeks, but Hogsmeade was independent of the school and had its own thriving community. He watched most of it unnoticed from his window, and that’s exactly what he, Death Incarnate, wanted. That wasn’t true, but he couldn’t get what he wanted.

The misery of being alive after a life filled with so much pain was a burden, a physical weight on his chest that made him draw his pajama clad knees up and rest his head on the window seal. It wasn’t an ideal position, he was a very tall man in a dressing gown, pajamas, and folded on a small window seal, but he was numb to the discomfort and to the people below. He was numb to everything as he absently rubbed his neck where the snake bites should’ve been. So immersed in his misery, he missed the soft, crisp knock from the other side of the small room.

“I was afraid that you were in Spinner’s End.”

Severus breathed in quickly and looked over to the door where Minerva McGonagall stood. Instantly a familiar mask slid over his face and he sneered. “Did you even bother to knock? Or am I to be denied that courtesy as well?” He unfolded his wiry legs and shifted so that his back was against the window. He blinked slightly at the shrewd look she gave him.

“Severus Snape, I have had you seated in front of me since you were an awkward, gangly 11 year old boy, do not take that tone with me.” Her own tone made him bite back any reply that might’ve been bubbling up. Instead he picked up his full bottle and went to sit at the writing desk provided. McGonagall followed him and sat in one of two chairs that furnished every room in the tavern.

“It didn’t do much good, did it? Your Gryffindors still terrorized me.” His rehashing of the past was clearly halfhearted as he glanced at the full bottle and sat it on the edge of the desk. It wasn’t the first time that they’d had that discussion, but over the years his heart wasn’t in it. And now…well, now he didn’t even know what he was. “James Potter and Sirius Black-“

“Are dead, Severus. And you brought a good bit of that torment on yourself. It is another lifetime—literally another life for you. Let it go.” After a long moment he did something alien to his old self. Severus shrugged and gave a little nod. The truth was that his malice, his hate for them was dimmed. They were dead. He was too, at one point, and somehow it seemed so insignificant. He watched as Minerva stood and picked up the fire whiskey. She held it up, feeling the weight and raised a surprised eyebrow. He smiled a little at the look before sighing and rubbing his face.

“You’re still the Headmaster of Hogwarts.” Her voice caused him to peer at the woman over his hand before dropping it heavily.

“I resign.”

There was no hesitation in his reply, no question in his voice as he sat back against his chair. He looked at his colleague dully as she gave a heavy sigh.

“No you don’t,” Minerva replied and merely mirrored the raised eye brow he gave her. “You’re a symbol now Severus. Everyone loves you or hates you, but either way the life of anonymity you want won’t happen.”

“You don’t know that.” Severus stated, his lips thinned in displeasure. “I can go away, I don’t have to be here. I can disappear. If I have to be alive then why don’t I get the chance to do it the way I want for once?” The victory he felt like he should’ve gotten in that didn’t come. Minerva had no reply, but as he watched her sitting across from him, the many decades she’d been alive seemed to catch up with her instantly. Two wars against the Dark Lord and so many years of service to Hogwarts had taken their toll. He never noticed before. Maybe he just didn’t want to.

They stared at each other for a few moments before he sighed and, his face tight with stress, looked at the surface of the desk. A silent resignation to, at the very least, listen.

“You have been protecting Hogwarts for nearly twenty years, Severus. You’ve been hated for most of that time.” A tired smile crossed the older woman’s face. “I understand that you want your freedom. You deserve it, but you are still needed. I’m tired.” It was the tone more than anything that caused him to lift dark eyes up to look at her again. Minerva had been a part of Hogwarts for as long as Hogwarts had been a part of his life, much like Dumbledore had. And, much like the late headmaster, she’d be gone someday. He didn’t really want to be there for that; he didn’t want to keep caring for the old woman when she would eventually be gone just the same as everyone else.

“I’m not safe around them, Minerva.” The quiet admission was sincere and not a ploy to get out of the obligation that followed him to death and back. “I’m not the same man I was. I’ve begun remembering and…” He trailed off as, for a moment, he seemed to go somewhere else. Minerva sat silent, patiently waiting.

After a few long moments, he breathed in deeply. “I remember Voldemort. I remember how it felt to pull every last bit of life out of him. It was every satisfying feeling I’ve ever had bundled into one moment. I was disgusted at myself for enjoying it, as I am now.” And, he felt distinctly vulnerable admitting it to her or anyone else. “What if I can’t control myself and do that to a student? I cannot protect Hogwarts if it is within my ability to-“ he cut himself off and shook his head, not willing to finish that sentence. Though physically he hadn’t been completing the work Death had started that day, he knew it was being done. He just somehow knew that the devoted amongst Voldemort’s followers were dying gruesome ways, and no peace waited for them on the other side. He didn’t tell her how much satisfaction he got out of that either.

“I’m different. I feel as if I am a dam holding back a lake of fire. What happens when I can’t hold it back?”

Minerva remained silent throughout his explanation, her face passive and neutral as he voiced his fears. He shifted under her gaze, the one that he’d so often been under as a child when he was brought before her for punishment. It wasn’t accusatory, but nonetheless it was uncomfortable.

“For three weeks you terrorized the staff at St. Mungo’s. You threw things, you yelled, you cursed and you invented new words to hurdle at them.” He struggled to hide a smirk. “Most of the staff refused to deal with you, and yet you did nothing more than make an arse out of yourself. Perhaps Hogwarts will test your resolve, but no more, I think, than that did.” A gentleness just slightly softened her crisp words as the man before her absorbed what she said.

His response was quiet, but audible. “You put too much faith in me.”

“You do not put enough in yourself,” the woman countered. “Stop living as if you are dying, Severus. Whatever has happened to you, whatever miracle it is, try to enjoy it.”

For several long moments he sat in silence, watching McGonagall as she watched him. Finally he gave an annoyed sigh. Severus pulled a face, as if he’d caught whiff of a catbox, before he growled and shifted how he sat. He drew his arms up across his chest as a stray, stubborn curl fell across his forehead.

“Fine. But I get firewhiskey. And I can take house points away. And I’m going to take them away from your Gryffindors. Don’t give me that look, you wanted me back…”


End file.
